I woke up early in the morning and pushed the heavy blankets off of me, trying to use the cold to wake myself up a bit. The Kurdish fighter I had met the night before had already left, but his AK-47 was still propped in the corner of the room. I began the daily ritual that the PKK members who live in the camp had probably repeated every day for the past 10 or 20 years.
Hobbling uphill a bit, I made my way to the latrine. It was a basin set into a cement foundation under a leaky roof. Because I’m taller than most Kurds, I had to hunch over while relieving myself, or my forehead would be pushing up the cardboard and plastic sheets that served as a ceiling. Next, I headed down to the hut that served as a commons area and chow hall.
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